


If We Only Live Once (I Want To Die With You)

by Idril



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, John's in the hospital, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock comes back early
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idril/pseuds/Idril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought he was saving John's life by jumping from the roof. As it turns out, no one is ever really safe from the mundane accidents of life. Or; John gets hit by a car, Sherlock freaks out and returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Only Live Once (I Want To Die With You)

Sherlock has been gone for seven months now. There are many things he misses about home. He would even say, if pressed, that his brother is one of those things. Certainly, John is another, but he can’t afford to be distracted by that thought. He didn’t think he would be gone this long.

Sherlock has been in touch with his brother sporadically, giving enough details for Mycroft’s men to come in and clean up his messes. And he has been making a lot of messes. He’s killed no less than twice a month, on average, since he’s been gone. It would be impressive, except it has begun to take a toll on him. Even Mycroft has been insisting that he come home. For “a leave”, as he put it.  

“Even soldiers need leave, Sherlock,” Mycroft had said last time they were face-to-face, two months ago in Barcelona. “And you are no soldier. Come home.”

Which had only made him think of John, and did John ever get leave, and what did he do ( _no, don’t think about that, Army men are notorious for what they do on leave_ ), then get cross at his brother for reminding him.

****

Sherlock is sitting in a small cafe in Lithuania, when his mobile rings. It takes him a shocking second to realize what the noise is, at first, because this phone is not supposed to ring. The screen reads “blocked number” and Sherlock has only one idea who could be calling him. He feels real fear spread through his limbs. Sherlock had been very clear to Mycroft that there was only one reason he was to ever **ever** call.

“Hello?” He can’t keep a slight tremor out of his voice when he finally answers on the third ring.

“Sherlock.” It is indeed his brother’s voice. He knows what is about to be said.

“You need to come home.”

****

In all, it takes him 9 hours to get back to London, with Mycroft’s help. He hasn’t been told anything about John, except that he’s alive, and that he can’t go to the hospital to see him yet. Sherlock, on some level, understands this (he is a dead man, still), but on the level at which he is currently operating, it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. He screams at Mycroft, who is clearly at fault for letting John work such late shifts, and on New Years Eve, too? When the idiots are out in full force, driving drunk? What is wrong with Mycroft? He doesn’t listen when Mycroft reminds him that he is not John’s keeper and that he does not let John do anything, he just takes surveillance pictures of the things John does do to send to Sherlock. And, Mycroft adds, as if an after-thought, John does not talk to him. _Not surprising_ , thinks Sherlock. _He doesn't like you._

So that is how, on his first night back in London, Sherlock finds himself out of his mind with worry in Mycroft’s house. He clearly cannot trust anything about this situation. If John was hurt enough for him to be here, why can’t he see him? If John is going to be fine, then why is he still in hospital? He decides to spend his nervous energy looking for false rooms and trap doors behind all of Mycroft’s paintings. After that, he begins on the carpets. (He finds nothing, but his hands are bloodied from pulling up all the corners and getting stuck on the tiny track nails keeping the carpeting in place and it makes him feel a little better).

Mycroft shouts at him the next morning for leaving bloody fingerprints on his carpeting and walls, and Sherlock just demands to see John. And maybe it’s because he fears what might happen if he leaves Sherlock alone for another day, but Mycroft agrees.

****

John is not conscious.  Perhaps that is why Mycroft did not want to bring him here. He looks so small laying between the white sheets. Sherlock feels himself look desperately to his brother for answers, and, perhaps more terrifying than anything he’s seen yet, Mycroft looks back at him with pity in his eyes.

“He was hit by a car, crossing the street. Drunk driver, ran the light, as you suspected. 5 am, after working an overnight shift. He has not woken up yet.” And Mycroft leaves unspoken what Sherlock knows- 24 hours is the magic number, and John has been unconscious for almost 26 now.

Such an ordinary, careless thing to happen. While Sherlock was off fighting paid killers and thugs, sleeping in the streets and changing identities every week, all to save John’s life, the man goes and walks into a car right here in London. It is utterly absurd. Sherlock could have just stayed and the outcome might have been the same. These last months didn’t make a difference. John could die on him at any time, without Moriarty’s help. The thought paralyzes him. _John could die any time._

Sherlock feels himself sink into the chair by the window. John has a private room, and Sherlock is wearing a disguise (albeit a weak one, just track pants and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up), but he knows that, logically, he cannot stay here until John wakes. People will want to visit. Friends will come by. Maybe even Lestrade, who would recognize Sherlock no matter what disguise he wears. He also knows, logically, that if anyone tries to make him leave this room, they will not be successful. Mycroft seems to see that desperation in his eyes, and sighs.

“I can give you three hours, Sherlock.” It seems both generous and cruel.

Sherlock drags the lone chair over to John’s bedside. He gets a closer look at him, now. A few abrasions on his face and arms, a splint binding his pinky and ring finger together on his left hand, and that is all Sherlock can see without folding down the sheet. He is afraid to fold down the sheet. Instead, he goes to the foot of the bed and lifts the chart. Two broken ribs, internal bleeding that they got under control very quickly, concussion. And, apparently, the inability to wake up.

“John,” he says, his voice surprising him. He is hoarse, and he realizes he hasn’t said anything since since morning when Mycroft agreed to take him here. He folds himself back into the chair, stretching out an arm and placing it gently on John’s. Maybe if he knew that Sherlock was here, had come back, he would open his eyes? Sherlock knows he can’t go beyond 48 hours without waking up. He is already in the danger zone. There does not seem to be any serious enough injury to be causing this delay. What is the problem?

“John,” he says, a little louder, a little more commanding. “Wake up. You got hit by a car.”

Nothing.

“You idiot! Do you even have any idea what I’ve gone through to keep you alive? And you go and--” Sherlock cuts himself off. Really, he should not be yelling at a man in a coma. _Bit not good_ , he hears in his mind.

Nothing still.

He decides it wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a minute, and lays his forehead on John’s bed, arms straight out laying on top of John’s chest. The presence of a heartbeat only slightly comforts him.

****

He wakes to the piercing sound of a heart monitor going crazy. Irregular blips, alarms going off, then he realizes that John is moving underneath him, struggling and gasping for breath like he is just coming up from too long underwater. Or having a panic attack. A nurse rushes into the room and Sherlock backs away, but not before he sees the look in John’s eyes.  

John has seen him, and is completely freaking out. His eyes are wide and fearful. He is trying to get out of bed, but the nurse is holding him down, rather easily it would seem, and there’s something wrong with that.

“John,” Sherlock says, reaching his arm out towards him. “Calm down, John.”

“What- What’s happening? Where am I? Sherlock? You--” John sounds confused and scared and _perfect_.

The nurse looks sharply at him now.

“Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?” The woman scans his face and her eyes pop.

Mycroft is there, out of nowhere (his time must be nearly up, he really needed that sleep), and takes the nurse firmly by the elbow, leading her out of the room. She tries to protest, but stops at the look she gets.

Sherlock is now alone with John, who seems to have realized that he is hooked up to an IV and can’t get out of bed. Also, that he is in a lot of pain. He stops struggling and sinks back onto the bed.

“You are dead, you’re-,” John begins, but stops.

Sherlock is so relieved that he doesn’t even comment on how idiotic John is being. Clearly, he is not dead. Instead, he finds himself fairly throwing his body on the bed, hugging John over wires and tubes and white hospital sheets. He can’t remember the last time he hugged anyone, so he’s not sure if he’s doing it right. John does not hug back, though, so Sherlock quickly gets himself under control. He backs away, but doesn’t go far.

“John, you almost died,” Sherlock says, and can't keep the reprimand out of his voice. He hopes that is enough to explain why he’s here. He can't understand why it wouldn't be.

“What?” John still looks confused, though he has calmed from his previous state of panic and anxiety. He is holding his side and wincing.

“You were hit by a car. You have been unconscious for almost 28 hours.” Sherlock feels the relief hit him, now that he sees John slowly process this information. John is present and aware.

“How are you here?” John asks, voice incredulous.

“Mycroft called me.”

“No--not literally how are you in the hospital. How are you **here** , Sherlock? Alive. Am I- What have they got me hooked up to?” John turns and begins to drag the IV pole towards him to read what chemicals they are pumping into him.

“You are not hallucinating.” Best to make this clear. “John, it was fake. All of it.”  He meets John’s eyes now, and finds his voice shaking when he says, with intentional weight, “It was just a magic trick.”

He feels something inside him break at the look on John’s face. He is putting the pieces together. He seems to shrink back as if there’s nothing holding him up anymore, eyes closing, breath racing again.

“Oh God, oh God, Sherlock,” he breathes. Sherlock wants to grab his face and breathe for him.

“I’m sorry for what you have been through, John, but I will not apologize for what I did. It was the only way to keep you safe.” Sherlock looks down again at John, lying in a hospital bed through no fault of his own, or Moriarty’s, but simply the cruelty of life. Maybe that's not as true as he thought.

John seems to grasp the irony of the situation, as well, and he laughs, though the sound of it is not happy.

“Really? The only way to keep me safe? You see where I am, don’t you? You told me yourself- I almost died. From being hit by a bloody car. A car, Sherlock! Oh my God, ‘a magic trick’? You said that to me. That day. Oh my God, I’m such an idiot. You are such an idiot. You--”

Sherlock can see John forcibly stop himself. He takes a step closer and sits down again on the chair, pulling it around so he can face John directly.

“Sherlock,” John begins again and it seems he has more control of himself. His eyes are softer, and he reaches out a hand to place on top of Sherlock’s, which have somehow made it onto the bed again. “You cannot keep me safe. Clearly. I don’t want you to. I never asked you to. No one can keep anyone safe. We’re all at the mercy of a drunk driver, or an infection, or--”

But Sherlock cannot hear any more ways that John could be taken from him. Instead, he tips his head and lays his lips on top of John’s. It’s not quite a kiss, just Sherlock pressing his face against John’s and stopping those words, feeling his breath and his life. But then, Sherlock thinks, it could be a kiss.

He pulls away when he thinks John will stop talking.

John is just staring at him.

“John, I’m-”

“No. No. If you’re going to be sorry for anything, Sherlock, that should not be it. That was, um. Yeah. Fine.” He leans back against his pillow and rubs his hand over his face, takes a deep breath. Then he rolls away from Sherlock and vomits onto the floor.

“John!” Sherlock is alarmed. Head injury, nausea, not good. Not to mention he did just kiss the man, and that was the reaction he got. But it’s probably not personal, he thinks. Hopes.

John moans, like he’s in pain, and mumbles, “Sorry. I don’t feel--” he dry heaves. “I don’t feel well.”

Sherlock doesn't so much push the call button as smash it into the wall. He will not risk John’s health for his secrecy, and for John to admit that, he must feel terrible. Anyway, Mycroft has probably taken care of the situation with the nurse by now.

It takes longer than Sherlock thinks it should, but then Mycroft comes back in, with the same nurse following shortly after. She doesn't look at Sherlock, just comes over to John and starts looking at the machines and adjusting the IV flow. Less drugs. Side effect is nausea, why didn't he think of that?

John brushes her away when she tries to straighten his pillows. Uncomfortable, but still doesn't want people to fuss over him. She brings him a bedpan, in case he vomits again, and then leaves, all without a word. Someone else comes in and mops up the floor.

Mycroft has come over to stand next to him during these proceedings. It is strange for Mycroft to have stayed in the first place. He should have just dropped him off and went about running the world. Instead, his brother is here, standing shoulder to shoulder with him in a private hospital room as if there’s no place else he needs to be. He's too close. Sherlock takes a step away. He thinks Mycroft looks- hurt? But, no. It's pity, again. Or maybe that’s just kindness.

"So," John begins, looking around, then looking to Mycroft. "I suppose you had a hand in all this.”

“I thought you would appreciate a private room,” Mycroft says, brows furrowed.

“Not the sodding room!” John shouts, slamming his fist into the bed before he visibly gets control of himself. The process is so familiar to Sherlock that it takes his breath away with the rightness and _home_ of it. “Not the room, though, yes, it’s nice, thanks. No, with Sherlock. Alive. This was your doing, wasn’t it?”

Mycroft looks to Sherlock now, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Actually, it wasn’t Mycroft’s doing, exactly. Yes, Mycroft planned it and pulled the strings and financed the entire project, but it was Sherlock’s idea from the start. Sherlock’s insane, over-the-top love letter to John Watson. Mycroft knew it was ridiculous, told Sherlock as much, but it didn’t matter. Sherlock was insistent that the only way to ensure John’s safety was to deal with this himself- Moriarty wanted it to be personal? Fine. He would personally kill everyone Moriarty knew and trusted. No one would ever threaten John again if they saw what Sherlock would do for the man. John would be safe forever from madmen like Moriarty, it would just take a little time. A year, tops.

Sherlock hesitates, and Mycroft almost laughs.

"Perhaps this is a conversation best left for another, more private, time, don't you think?" Mycroft says instead. Sherlock feels relieved. But also a bit like a coward. And also a bit put off with John for ruining his plan. He only had a few people left to kill, after all. He would have been back within a year. Now he will have to leave John all over again.

He turns to Mycroft.

"Leave."

Mycroft looks surprised for a moment, then tells him that Harriet has been informed her brother is awake, and will likely be here soon.  Both John and Sherlock swear at Mycroft, which he clearly takes as his signal to depart.

Sherlock turns back to John and approaches the bed. He leans closely to whisper, afraid to be overheard.

"John. I have been hunting down everyone on Moriarty's bank roll. Mycroft has helped. I have 3 main players left. I know where one of them is hiding, and he will lead me to the others. It will be another 3 months, 4 months tops. This needs to be finished before I can come back. These men, the ones left, are the top of the organization. The most dangerous and the most deadly. I cannot let them live, John. Do you understand?"

"So you've been off, what? Killing people?" John looks doubtful. After all, he was the gun.

Sherlock meets his eyes.

"Yes." He wants John to know what he is now. He has changed during these months. Some of the people he killed did not go down easy. Some of it was very close- he strangled one, and felt his life slowly ebbing away, second by second. It took a long time to strangle someone. The man had tried to fight back and had ended up clawing Sherlock’s forearms to shreds. After it was over, he had vomited in a rubbish bin, then called Mycroft to clean everything up.

"Now what?" John asks, looking at him with wide eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, you're back, Sherlock. You're in London." Sherlock hadn't really thought this part through. He had been too preoccupied with the thought of losing John for good. Now that it comes to it, can he really leave John again? What if something else happens? What if John gets sick? What if one of his targets has figured out Sherlock is alive and comes after John? The staggering amount of variables makes him feel weak.

"I need to finish. Can you try to stay alive for a few more months, John? I don't feel that it is too much to ask."

John actually laughs. It's a rough sound, not really humourous, but Sherlock loves it anyways. It has been a long time since he's heard anyone laugh.

"I can't promise that! Haven't you learned anything? I didn't plan on getting hit by a car, Sherlock! I didn't really think I would die, alone, crossing a street. I thought I would die-" He cuts off abruptly, looking down to fiddle with the IV in his hand.

"In Afghanistan?" Sherlock supplies.

"No," John says, very serious all of a sudden, still looking down.

"In your flatshare?" Sherlock knows all about why John had bought that gun.

"No," John says again, and this time he looks up and meets Sherlock's eyes. His eyes look tired and sad and not right. Sherlock feels his stomach drop and his brow furrow in confusion.

"Where, John?" Sherlock's voice is almost a whisper. Why is he whispering?

John just shakes his head. He opens his mouth, like he is about to say something, but closes it again quickly. Sherlock takes a step closer and removes John's hand from the IV. He doesn't let go.

"Where, John?" His voice is stronger, now that he is touching John. He has an idea of the answer, but he is afraid to say in case he is wrong- or in case he is right. It is his same answer.

"With you, Sherlock." John sounds defeated. "I thought I would die somewhere, doing something fantastically mad, with you."

Sherlock feels his breath leave his body, and he has to sit again in the chair to keep from falling.

"John. That is not..." What is it not? Good? It's _perfect_. It is the most perfect thing Sherlock has ever heard. It is the unlooked-for confirmation of his own secret desires. If nothing comes of this, if he still has to leave and John never forgives him, at least he will have the memory of John saying those words. Of knowing that at one time, John felt the same way Sherlock feels every day, and will continue to feel until the day he dies.

"I don't care, Sherlock. I know it's idiotic. I am an idiot, as you have pointed out on several occasions. But there is nowhere that I would rather be than by your side, whether we're sitting in our chairs or whether I'm aiming at a psychopath who's trying to kill you. When you died, Sherlock-” John stops to clear his throat before continuing. “When you _left_ , I wanted to follow.”

Sherlock is speechless for a moment. Then, it all makes sense. It is so crystal clear to him. He cannot believe he didn't think of it earlier. (To be fair, he **did** think of it earlier, but disregarded the idea as carelessly dangerous. He couldn’t bear the thought of risking John’s life. He knows better now. Better to have John die with him than die alone in London.).

"Come with me, John." Yes. That feels so right to say. He has to say it again. "Come with me."

“To hunt killers and psychopaths? I did just almost die, Sherlock, as you put it, I think I may need-”

“Yes, yes, of course. I suppose I can spare a week.” Sherlock smiles at him. He could spare more than a week, to be honest, if John came with him. John smiles back, then shakes his head, exasperated.

Sherlock leans into John’s space again. Brings his hand to touch John’s face, run over the abrasions, comb through his hair. Presses his lips against John's again. He stays longer this time, means it as a kiss. When he pulls away, he feels his world shifting and realigning back around John, like it should be.

“Come with me," he says again. It sounds like a plea. He adds, "please," just to make sure John knows it is.

John just smiles, leans up to kiss him again. He brings his hands to Sherlock's face, this time, to keep him close. He has that same look of exasperation, awe, and love (yes, he can see that now) that Sherlock had missed for too long.

And when he hears John's whispered answer ("Yes, Sherlock, of course I'll come with you, please don't leave me behind again"), he knows that John is right. If he only gets to die once, he might as well die with John. And if, as he hopes, they make it through this- he might as well live with him, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea from the song "Something I Need" by OneRepublic.  
> Follow my Spotify song list "Writing" to see what other songs I have for inspiration!  
> http://open.spotify.com/user/brit2612/playlist/1X7Mk3xCKaeMcg6GdTqluX
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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